Ebb and Flow
by RhetoricalLove
Summary: Life and death are like the ebb and flow of the tide; but no matter how much someone sees, it's never easy to say goodbye. Character Death. Implied Wincest and pre-Dean/Castiel.


The sun was hot overhead in a desolate sky, blistering heat waves beating down on any poor, stupid soul who ventured outside in the weather. The air was thick with the smell of blood, sweat and dust as Dean plunged the shovel into the cracked earth. Every time he heaved the dry, crusting dirt out of the new hole, he felt a tiny bit of his soul being ripped out and tossed away to the wind. With every pound of earth that he tossed to the side, hitting one of the old, rusted cars in Bobby's salvage yard, he felt anger bubbling up in his chest, pushing him closer and closer towards the breaking point. Towards Hell.

Dean stopped digging, resting his head on the handle of the shovel, dirtying his forehead further with smudges of dust that crusted in the sweat and blood beading there. He hadn't taken a shower since it had happened, hadn't scrubbed the blood off his face or his hands. Hadn't felt the need to do it at all; he was through with caring.

"Dean." He didn't turn at the sound, didn't care that the angel was watching him closely with his scrutinizing blue eyes. Dean didn't want to deal with him now, couldn't stand the bullshit that he thought Castiel would spin about reasoning and fate and what the _fuck_ ever.

"Go away, Cas." He growled; the anger building in his chest seeped through his words, begging for release. He could feel it in his veins, like cancerous blood clots blocking his arteries; it cut off all other senses but rage. He slammed the shovel back into the brittle earth, diverting his full attention back to the trench.

He felt rather than saw the angel move closer. There was no crunch of the ground underneath the soles of his shoes, just the whisper of wings and his trench coat moving in the breeze, then he was there at Dean's side. The angel on his shoulder, Dean thought absurdly, _if Cas was the angel on my shoulder, then why did he let this happen?_ The angel said nothing for a long while, listening to Dean's grunts of effort as he dug the hole deeper, wider, longer, to fit the body that lay on its side in Bobby's freezer, covered only by a cotton sheet.

Castiel didn't speak until Dean had finished the grave, throwing the shovel down, its rusted blade kicking up the piles of dirt on the ground where it fell. Dean sat down against one of the old cars; an old Sebring convertible from the early 90's that had a crunched up front end. Its side was hot from the sun, burning through the thin, sweat soaked t-shirt that clung to Dean's back. "It wasn't your fault." His voice was different, just vaguely, from his normal solid tone. There was just a hint of care, a waver of concern in the tone.

"And why the fuck would it matter anyways?" Dean looked up, meeting Castiel's eyes with a deadly glare. "Why the fuck does anything matter anymore?" His gaze didn't waver as the angel stepped closer, kneeling down before Dean in the dust. He reached out and took one of Dean's hands from where it lay on the dusty ground, bloody knuckles and glistening skin be damned, and held it to his own chest.

"Dean," Castiel's voice had dropped to a mere whisper, so quiet that Dean almost missed it when one of the soft, hot afternoon breezes swept by. "He doesn't blame you for what happened."

"How the Hell do you know Cas." Dean deadpanned, itching to pull his hand away from Castiel's chest and out of his grasp, but simply not having enough willpower to do anything but seethe. "He's dead, I can't bring him back. He's fucking dead because I wasn't strong enough. Because I couldn't be the fucking hero that Dad wanted me to be." He could feel not only one, but a trail of tears dribble from under his long eyelashes when he closed his eyes, blocking Castiel, the dusty grave, the unrelenting sun from his vision.

He felt the angel move closer, the unbearable heat of his body, wrapped in the dusty trench coat encroaching on Dean's personal space. He could feel Castiel's breath on his face; feel the shift of his thighs bracketing Dean's hips. His eyes didn't flutter open, and the anger in his chest only flared when he felt Castiel brushing his lips against Dean's cheek. It was too soon, _too soon!_

The angel grunted when Dean flipped him onto his back, snarling in his face and pinning his wrist in the dirt above his head roughly. "Don't do that Cas." Dean barked, "not now, not after..." His words died in his throat, not able to choke out the name that was caught there. He leaned his face into Castiel's neck, inhaling a deep, stuttering breath. He didn't want to be mad at Castiel, the anger welling in Dean's chest wasn't for him to feel. The angel was only trying to help, and if there was a later for him, Dean knew that he'd find solace in that.

"Help me?" His voice was muffled against Castiel's skin. "Please, help me."

Castiel slowly wormed his wrists out of Dean's grasp and relocated his hands to Dean's back, pushing them both into a seated position. Dean's muscles trembled beneath the angels fingers as he slowly helped the hunter to his feet. Dean pulled away a moment later, entering Bobby's house alone. The door was left ajar, swinging open on rusted hinges so Castiel could see inside. He didn't look though, giving Dean his privacy.

When Dean returned, there were fresh tears on his cheeks, and the solid weight of a body in his arms. The sheet was intact, covering the still frame. Dean was straining under the weight, partially due to his anger and sorrow, and partially just because the body was heavier than what he was used to carrying. Castiel reached out and helped him lower it into the grave before removing the sheet in a smooth swish of cloth.

Dean closed his eyes as he lit a match from his pocket, then dropped it onto the crinkled, blood soaked plaid shirt. "Good bye, Sam." He murmured, listening to the soft words that Castiel murmured over his brother's grave; leading his soul to Heaven.


End file.
